


The Things They Carry

by Joanne_Barcia



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 10, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanne_Barcia/pseuds/Joanne_Barcia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sweets is gone. There's a trail of blood across the first level parking lot of Sanderson Chemical. Skid marks across the center of the floor. There's a broken phone on the ground, an emptied gun by its side, but nothing else to be found."  Alternate season 10/conspiracy arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Story originally started in October, 2014, finished recently. Realized I never posted anything on here haha -- enjoy!)

* * *

_**Part One: Evanescent / tending to vanish like vapor** _

_"He'd lost everything. He'd lost Kiowa and his weapon and his flashlight and his girlfriend's picture. He remembered this.  
He remembered wondering if he could lose himself."_

_― Tim O'Brien, _The Things They Carried__

* * *

September 25, 2014

" _What do you mean, he's gone?"_

No sooner does Booth ask that question than Aubrey lets loose another flurry of panicked, jumbled words, just like before. And, if he correctly understood _any_ small percentage of what he said the first time, they probably don't have time for panic or stuttering or incompetency of any sort.

"Hey, _hey,"_ the agent says firmly, stepping away from Brennan and the older man. " _Slow down._ What do you mean?"

And the words come out in that same rushed style, only slightly slower and infinitely more understandable. It may not be what Booth wants to hear – but at least he gets it. Sort of.

Sweets is gone. There's a trail of blood across the first level parking lot of Sanderson Chemical. Skid marks across the center of the floor. There's a broken phone on the ground that sure looks like Sweets', an emptied gun by its side, but no evidence other than that. The security cameras, all taken out. No stray bullet fragments or shell cases to be found.

It's not much. But it's enough for Booth to grab Brennan by the elbow as soon as he hangs up, usher her away from their interviewee and throw a hasty goodbye over his shoulder as they rush to the car, with Brennan asking all the while what went wrong. It's not until they're in the car and speeding back toward that chemical plant that he tells her.

And what could she possibly say to that?

Events have been piling up in layers, blurring together like slides, and – in the midst of the chaos – the two are beyond hollow words of comfort or useless expressions of worry. They only fall on ears that have heard it all before and can no longer be fooled. Fear cannot be defeated by ideas alone.

Actions, on the other hand – like tearing through the city streets with sirens screaming viciously in their breathless rush for answers – those have potential. Those might accomplish something.

But when they finally screech to a stop in the parking lot where Aubrey is pacing, running nervous fingers through his hair with enough force to rip it all out, they're suddenly not so sure about that. Regardless, they're out of the car in seconds, switching (not so) seamlessly into the detective mode they're so accustomed to, trying to ignore the circumstance that brought them here. Whether or not they succeed is an open ended question.

Brennan is the first to speak as Booth opens the back of his SUV to rummage through his supplies. She scans her surroundings and turns to face Aubrey and his saucer eyes, speaking clearly and quickly.

"Have you touched the evidence at all?"

Dr. Temperance Brennan has always carried herself in a way that demands respect and – although this was never her intention – instills fear. And though she has never been the type of person to enjoy frightening people, she finds it works well for her when she needs something done. Special Agent James Aubrey is no exception.

As most people do when meeting her for the first time, he stutters and rambles.

"No, ma'am," he says. "No, I haven't touched it at all. I was going to try and gather evidence into bags, but I didn't have any in my car and I figured it would be best to wait until you and Agent Booth arrived so as to avoid any possible error on my part. So I haven't touched any of it, ma'am."

She only nods.

Booth emerges from the back of his truck, holding evidence bags in one hand and three pairs of rubber gloves in the other. They are distributed evenly among them, and they scan the area without another word, bagging evidence, taking blood samples, noting everything. By the time they finish, they have found nothing that gives them any idea of who took Sweets or where they could have gone. The blood sample, they agree, will be taken to the Jeffersonian to be analyzed, although they already have an eerie idea of whose it is. The reliability of assumption pales in comparison to that of science, after all.

Before they leave, just to be certain, Booth sends Aubrey to ask about the security tapes and see if they could discover what led up to what was no doubt a very violent attack. And, of course, the young agent is practically shooed out as soon as he walks through the door to the offices, in true "get-a-goddamn-warrant" fashion. There may or may not have been a crack about Doogie Howser going into law enforcement as he left, but regardless, Aubrey's perfectly willing to ignore it.

Thus the ride back to the Jeffersonian is a quiet one, with no evidence to offer the lab other than Sweets' discarded things and a heavy feeling of dread in the pits of their stomachs.

* * *

One day goes by, and the lab discovers nothing. There are no bones left behind to analyze, no flesh, no bugs. There is the blood, easily identified as Sweets', but nothing to show how he lost it. There are tire tracks, photographed and catalogued, but that alone can't identify much. Michelin tires, basic tread, defender series. That's all.

Imagine a spinning wheel held just above the ground, and you've got the Jeffersonian team. A group full of incredibly talented scientists and one star agent who can't do much more than spin and fidget and wait for something new to surface while their friend was gone without a trace.

Booth, he's waiting for the warrant he needs to send Aubrey to get the tapes from Sanderson.

The rest of them, they're waiting for those tapes. Because God knows they've looked at every small bit of evidence enough times to recite the facts by heart, and they still have not found even a tiny clue to where Sweets is or who took him. They don't even have enough evidence to say, in all truth, that Sweets is still alive – but they would certainly prefer to make this assumption than to consider the alternative.

They desperately, desperately need those tapes.

And it's a damn shame that Booth will never receive them, not even with Caroline hounding the higher-ups for the warrant every chance she gets.

Instead, all he receives is a single email, Pelant-esque in its cryptic anonymity. No sender, no subject, no timestamp – just a single sentence that burns the agent's eyes to read.

_I highly recommend that you stop digging in the Bureau._

* * *

Another day goes by without rest. Then another. Days two and three vanish into the air, and they are no closer to solving this kidnapping than they were on day one.

The FBI sends their message to Booth denying his request for a warrant halfway through day four.

By day six, Booth is fully prepared to say that this case has gone to hell. That, however, is not completely accurate. Brennan levels with him, and they decide that this whole case already was hell. And all it has really done is rise.

He finds a case file on his desk on morning seven, when he stumbles into his office with his third cup of coffee in hand. It's nothing different than a normal work day as far as his desk is concerned – and that's how it will stay, if the assignment sheet on top has anything to say about it. No transferring this new case to another agent. No putting it off. There's even a handwritten note in the margin, addressed directly to him from one of his superiors.

_Regardless of your concern about the disappearance of Dr. Lance Sweets, we advise you to step back from the case. We have other agents in more appropriate divisions investigating it. The safety and wellbeing of our men and women are of the utmost importance, Agent Booth; do not doubt that. They are working tirelessly to locate our missing agent. In the meantime, we expect you to continue your assigned work. Good luck._

It takes a great deal of self-control not to drop this new assignment in the shredder, and in that moment, Seeley Booth is struck with the sudden idea that he may, in fact, be in over his head. Nerves begin to dig at the lining of his stomach, and soon, he's flipping through the pages of that case file. The sooner they finish this case, after all, the sooner they can ignore the FBI's empty assurances and continue looking for Sweets themselves. They have no time for empty assurances. They have no time to waste on normal cases. They have no time to waste on anything other than finding Lance Sweets.

They can only hope that their time is not already up.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**Part Two: Liberation / freedom from limits; release**

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am."  
― Sylvia Plath, _The Bell Jar_

* * *

Four Months Later (January 15, 2015)  


They find him in the new year; two weeks in, on a day when the sun is bright and the sky is clear. The snow on the ground won't melt, but instead freezes over, leaving a hard, shining shell over the ground – the kind you slip on when you stop paying attention. They find him when the air is thin and bitter and their breath rises to meet the sky above their heads, when it's nearly too cold for Booth's fingers to move well enough to answer the call when it comes.

He almost misses it because of his damn fingers.

And when he answers it, it's not Angela, like he expects it to be. It's not Cam or Hodgins or Daisy or even Aubrey, and it certainly can't be Bones. She's standing right next to him, on the corner by the diner, waiting for the crossing signal to change – so she's there when a stranger's voice speaks right into Booth's ear. She's there to watch Booth's face change, a sure sign that something big is about to happen. Whether it's something wonderful or terrible, though, is left to her imagination.

The exact way Booth grabs her hand and pulls her across the street once the call is finished leads her to believe that it is a combination of both.

Booth climbs into his SUV and starts it up in the same second, and Brennan barely has time to buckle her seat belt before he's peeling away from the curb and speeding down the street. Her voice is barely heard over the engine's downshift, the sirens blasting above them, as she asks him what's happening.

It takes him a few seconds to loosen his jaw enough to answer her.

"They found him."

Cars are moving perfectly out of their way, blown to the shoulder like leaves from their path.

"They found him?"

There's that feeling in her gut like she's been jolted, breathless, and it's the only thing reminding her that this is, in fact, reality. Breathing and thinking are never difficult in dreams - especially dreams she's spent months hoping would come true.

Booth doesn't reply. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the road, his jaw set once more. Brennan continues in her search for answers, an urgent tone slipping through as she asks.

"Booth, what did they say? Is he alright?"

His voice is quiet, nearly washed away by all of the sounds around them.

"Yeah," he finally answers. "He's alive. They said he's okay."

Brennan's bones are suddenly calm again, her whole body relaxing against the seat. A breath she didn't realize she was holding is let out and freed. Meanwhile, the road keeps rushing by, rushing by, rushing by them in one big dizzying blur of gravel and lights and people and ice.

"Then why don't you seem relieved?"

He glances over at her once, twice as he drives, his mouth a line, his eyes dark and distant. He's not with her in that moment; he's somewhere far away.

"I don't believe them."

* * *

Missing FBI psychologist-slash-agent Dr. Lance Sweets turns up alive after four months of APBs and continuous investigation following a violent kidnapping. It's a goddamn headline already. Or at least it would be, if there were any reporters around to write it. But as it stands, nobody but the doctors, nurses and technicians on the hospital's third floor has been allowed to do much more than glance in the direction of his room - at least until his contacts were notified. Thank God for protocols.

Currently, those protocols are being followed in terms of the forms. Sitting in some stark, carpeted office, Booth finds himself on the receiving end of a stream of papers, skimming over the important parts and signing each one with a lazy flick of his wrist. He could care less about what he's signing, if he's honest; he'd sign his soul away if it meant getting to Sweets faster.

Thankfully, that isn't necessary. They take him and Brennan to him after just ten minutes of paperwork and legal briefing. As if he really needed legal briefing. Regardless, they take him – but as he walks behind a nurse with Brennan's hand held tightly in his own, a sudden hesitation plants itself in the back of his mind and nearly slows him to a stop. What would they find when they finally reached that room? They said Sweets was alive, they told him over the phone. But _alive_ – it's a blanket could mean so many different things.

It could mean _alive, but barely._ It could mean _breathing, but struggling._ It could mean _there's a machine-made heartbeat, artificial function, maybe_ _it's time to consider organ donation for what's left of him_ _._ He's seen it before. It could mean _mangled and destroyed beyond recognition or repair, in more ways than one._ He's seen that too. His heart does not stop racing and hammering in his ears until they're standing just in front of that closed door, and that single word _alive_ is finally defined for him.

"He was brought in unconscious with a few broken ribs, a moderate head injury, and several nonlethal lacerations. Further scans revealed minor internal injuries beneath the bruising on his torso," a young doctor, all concerned eyes and soft features, explains. "There's evidence of other injuries as well, from a couple x-rays and other scans we did, but those have either already healed or are in the process of healing. He's in pretty good shape, considering. He's been asleep, but you can see him, if you'd like."

She opens the door with that, and, true to her word, Dr. Lance Sweets is fast asleep, fairly banged up, but on the whole – safe and sound. There's an IV port sticking out from a thin left wrist, a few stitches up by his hairline, but his face is soft and relaxed. For a moment, it hasn't really been four months. It's been a day – a long, terrifying day that's finally over, and now Booth can finally breathe and rest his bones. Unless he's already asleep, and this is all just another too-good-to-be-true dream – but he glances over at Brennan's misty eyes, digs a fingernail into his own palm, and it's all suddenly real. Strangely, surreally real.

There's something magnetic about this room. Something that draws Booth's hand into Brennan's, draws them both into chairs by the side of the bed. The doctor doesn't leave; instead, she crosses the room and leafs through the clipboard on the far wall for a moment before pulling it down and bringing it back to them.

"There are the lacerations… that I think you should see," she starts, walking back. "We had to take pictures, because you can't see them unless… unless you're looking at his back…."

The words alone make his blood freeze in his veins, his chest ache as if he were just crudely woken from a dream – or thrown into a nightmare. His running thoughts stop in their tracks.

"They were easily sealed. They wouldn't normally be of much concern to us, but... as you can see..."

She holds up a glossed photograph, and their hearts nearly stop.

It's there, written in barely-closed cuts across the entire top half of his back.

_THERE IS NO CONSPIRACY._

Booth nearly throws up right on the spot. Brennan's hand curls tighter around his, and they stare for as long as they can stand to look before, resigned and silent, Booth hands the photo back to the doctor. He says nothing about it. Instead –

"Who found him?" His voice is quiet, shaken.

"We don't know," is the answer he receives. That's been the answer to most of his questions over the past four months, and this is no exception. Quite frankly, he's not surprised. "There was an anonymous 911 call placed that directed responders to him. They found him unconscious and alone somewhere in Maryland."

 _Unconscious and alone._ Those words seem misplaced, so completely sinful when applied to the sleeping man next to them. It's nearly wrong to picture – after four months of whatever he went through, this four-month long nightmare, Lance Sweets was left alone, scarred and bleeding in the cold. In that moment, Seeley Booth can sympathize with a few of the killers he's put away over the years.

So, leaning back in his plastic chair, hand still tucked neatly into Brennan's, he prepares himself for a long vigil. He's not leaving Sweets alone again – not today, probably not ever – and Brennan seems to have the same idea. She drops her bag onto the floor and makes herself comfortable as the doctor nods her head at the two before leaving the room. Then they wait. They wait for their friends to arrive, for Sweets to wake up; they wait for the moment that they can find whoever did this. Because God knows, as soon as they do, there will be hell to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

December, 2014

" _Bones."_

_The keyboard tapping, the light from the computer scream, they fill the room. They hold her focus, and she barely notices her husband enter; such is typical when she's focused on something important. He knows that. The tapping pauses for just a fraction of a second, her eyes coming up to glance his way, before continuing again. She's too far into what she's doing to offer her husband anything more than a curt nod to acknowledge that she even heard him._

_He won't take that, of course._

" _Bones, come to bed."_

_She types out a few more words, reads for just another quick second before finally giving her attention to Booth – however short-lived it may end up being._

" _I can't. Not yet."_

_And she very nearly goes right back to it, but pauses when she sees the hard, tired look on Booth's face. The lines of exhaustion on his forehead, the greying circles just underneath his eyes, they're all prominent features at this point. He needs sleep, and is probably just inches away from pulling Brennan upstairs to join him._

_But she can't._

" _Booth, I –"_

" _What are you working on?" he asks, his voice flat and quiet. They've been up to their eyes in assignments, not least of which was their own missing person's case. She could have anything up on that screen, could be pouring over every small detail pertaining to_ whatever. _It doesn't much matter. Nevertheless, he sits down on the couch beside her and leans his head over to look._

_Temperance Brennan, never a woman of subtlety, closes the lid of the laptop in one soft, fluid motion. The statistics on the screen, the case files, the notes and research, they're now invisible. Perhaps if they can't see them, they'll cease to exist; they'll lose their validity, their power. But Brennan – not a woman of subtlety, but of pure science and reasoning – knows that is not the case. Facts, of course, are ubiquitous, ever-present. You could fight them to the bitter end, but they'll always win._

" _Booth," she feels him tense beside her as she speaks, eyes to the carpet. She braces herself. "You need to adjust the APBs. And the missing person's report."_

" _What do you mean?" If she would just glance up at his face, she'd see his eyes, clouded with confusion. It translates into his voice, though – so she need not look. It's all the same, really._

_She breathes deep and forces the words out._

" _You need to take out the word_ alive. _The possibility that – that we may find nothing but remains, it needs to be included."_

_She should have expected the wide shake of Booth's head, the firm, "No," he gives automatically. Why would he respond any differently?_

" _No," he repeats, standing up from the couch and running an exasperated hand through his hair. "No, I'm not doing that. Not yet. Sweets is alive, Bones, I'm telling you. I'm not changing it yet, no way."_

_The lid of the computer comes back up as quickly as it went down, displaying pages on pages of bitter statistics._

" _Booth, you know how unlikely it is that we'll find him alive. It's been_ three months _. We did what they wanted, and the messages stopped weeks ago. All I'm saying is that you need to consider –"_

_He rounds on her. She expected it this time – not that it changes anything, of course._

" _He's_ alive, _Bones! Conspiracies aren't normal missing person's cases, you know that! And if they were going to kill him, Bones, they would have just killed him and been done with it. They woulda left him on the floor of that parking lot to die, and_ then _we'd be finding his body. But they took him somewhere! And then they wouldn't have contacted us at all if they killed him, Bones. They had a plan to use him, you gotta see that! People don't kill useful hostages."_

_Standing in the middle of the room, arms dropped to his sides, Seeley Booth looks completely and utterly dumbfounded. Lost for words, at this point._

" _Booth," she starts, her eyes locked firmly on his this time. "I am an extremely capable, skilled forensic anthropologist. Cam, Hodgins, Angela, Daisy, Aubrey, you and me – we're all talented in our work. And our work is to catch killers. Everyone in the FBI knows it. Whoever is pulling the strings of this conspiracy, why would they leave Sweets' body behind if we could identify the killer so easily? Have you considered that? To whoever took Sweets, he's dispensable if the plan doesn't work. So using him as incentive, or whatever they wanted – if it didn't work, they probably killed him. It's just logic, Booth, you –"_

" _Bones, you're giving up on him!" Booth finally shouts, his voice rising to meet the ceiling. She flinches. He barely notices. "You are completely_ giving up _on him! Do you think he'd ever give up on you? If it were you missing, you know he would never suggest that. He wouldn't give up hope of finding you alive, not for a second!"_

 _She shoves the computer to the side, onto the cushion of the couch, and stands tall, in the most intimidating pose she can muster. The cool, collected voice of reasoning has gone silent, mostly overtaken by her yelling right back to Booth, "I am_ not _giving up on him! Don't you dare think for one second that I am! I want to find him alive just as much as you do. He's just as much family to me as he is to you, and you know I would never give up on him like that. You_ know _that! I'm just looking at facts, Booth, and the facts…"_

_She deflates, her frustration disappearing just as fast as it appeared. She whispers, and if a few tears start trailing down her cheeks, Booth says nothing about them._

" _The facts say that he's probably dead."_

_And he wants to keep yelling. He wants to keep insisting that the facts are wrong, that Sweets is not – he can't be dead. God, the kid's twenty nine, just shy of thirty. He can't be dead._

_Those words tug at his mind but don't reach his mouth. He drops it._

_He makes the necessary changes to the reports a week later._

* * *

January, 2015

Daisy Wick has already decided by the time she steps off the elevator that the number three-sixteen is the most beautiful number she has ever heard. Dazzling, glorious – for the single reason that she'll find Lance Sweets in the room with that number displayed by the door. After four months, a near-boundless stretch of waiting and endless searching, after chasing leads that led them in circles, she's finally seen the end. Or at least the home stretch.

A mid-afternoon phone call from Seeley Booth, a hospital location, a kind-eyed receptionist repeating the room number over again and assuring her that he is well and truly _alive_. If she hadn't just been driving with one eye on the dashboard clock, counting every minute until she's once again by her boyfriend's side, she'd be certain that it all was just a hazy dream. She's never really believed in God before – but she can suddenly see the appeal. Perhaps miracles, scientifically unsound as they may seem, anomalous as they may be, are not strictly myths.

Her thoughts run in time with the click of her heels on the linoleum floor, quick yet controlled. And when she finally reaches the doorway – they screech to a halt.

The last time she saw Lance Sweets' face, it was smiling at her as he pulled the house door closed behind him, leaving. He blew a kiss, threw her a quick, "Love you," and he was gone. He didn't come home after that. And now here he is – his face beautifully calm and soft in sleep, his chest rising and falling perfectly, proof of life. She swipes her eyes and stares, barely daring to believe it. But God, it must be true; he's _alive_.

"Yeah, he's alive," Booth's rough voice echoes in her ears, proof that she was apparently just speaking aloud. If he or Brennan minded her interruption, though, they don't say as much. The agent stands from his chair and envelopes her in a gentle hug. She returns it forcefully. "He's alive. They found him."

After a few long moments, they pull apart and Brennan stands to receive her intern's grateful embrace in turn. And once they're apart, they just turn to stare at Sweets, who's still oblivious to all of them. He has no idea he's found, no clue he's safe. But perhaps the gentle hand Daisy cups his cheek with as Booth and Brennan sit back down will give him the message. The soft warmth of her lips on his forehead, the tickle of her hair on his shoulder, even the smell of her perfume if he could make it out – perhaps they'd be home enough for him. She cards a hand through his hair and kisses him again, just as much for her own sake as it is for his.

Booth finds her a chair, and she's soon seated as close to his left side as possible, his warm hand held tightly in her own. She shows no signs of leaving, at least for the time being. Neither do Booth and Brennan. Thus, the vigil continues.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_ December, 2014 _

_Christmas is a miserable affair, but they try their best. Daisy wears Sweets's holiday hat – a loud, green and red elf piece with a pom-pom on the end and pointed ears to boot – and they string up lights like no one's business and smile like it's the most natural forced thing in the world. They draw straws to decide who the designated drivers will be, and the ones who give up their keys drink as if the alcohol were free. And even inebriated, they don't say a word about him. They fill a glass to the brim with rum-spiked egg nog and leave it on the table, right in the shrink's usual spot, and aside from the occasional withering glance in that direction, they do put on a good front. They almost seem happy._

_Some people, however, see right through it; even if they are fairly tiny and largely removed from the truth, they do. Michael Vincent runs up and hugs his father's leg far more frequently before returning to his toys on the carpet, gives his mother an extra kiss without being prompted, because that will surely make her happy. And when he receives a few crooked grins for his efforts, he decides that that may be just as good a Christmas present as the Lego set under the tree._

_Christine's goal is essentially the same, though her methods are slightly different. Extra hugs and kisses might work perfectly well in Michael's case, but instead, she waits for her daddy to put his glass down on a nearby end table, waits for the conversation to pause (because it's the polite thing to do, according to her mommy) before carefully toddling up to him and poking his knee. His attention is on her immediately._

" _Daddy?" she asks as he squats down to her level. She looks nervously at him and up at her mother, and back down at a drawing clasped in her small hands. He hums for her to go on, and she does. "Are you sad?"_

_She just has to make sure._

_And Booth looks up at Brennan and locks eyes with her for a few seconds before answering his daughter. The rest of the room has quieted to listen with mild interest as he slowly nods._

" _Yeah, a little. I'm a little sad, sweetheart. Why do you ask?"_

" _Are you sad because you miss Uncle Sweets?"_

_His eyes flicker for a moment to the rest of them. Just for a moment. Then they're back on her._

" _Yeah, Christine. I miss Uncle Sweets."_

_And she thrusts her drawing in her father's face, with enough surprise force to throw him off-balance for a brief second. The stick figures and wildly colorful crayon drawings look like a typical drawing, in all honesty. So she elaborates._

" _Okay, 'cause I thought you were sad about Uncle Sweets, and I was too, so I made a drawing. Look, there's you…" she points. "And there's Mommy, and there's Uncle Sweets and Aunt Daisy, and there's me! If you want, you can keep it until he gets back."_

_She hands it to her father without waiting for a response, gives a quick kiss on the cheek and a quiet, "Merry Christmas, Daddy," before returning to the carpet and going back to Legos with Michael._

_Booth tapes the picture up by the bathroom mirror, so he sees it each morning when he gets ready for work. Consider it a motivator, as if he didn't already have all the motivation in the world._

* * *

_The ball drops in Times Square with much more fanfare than is necessary, and as soon as it does, Brennan turns the television off and stares at the black screen._

_She turns her head to face her husband, gives him the fakest smile she's ever given, and stiffly says, "Happy New Year."_

_He says the same._

_It's not, though._

* * *

January, 2015

It is some ungodly hour of the morning when he wakes up, when the sky just outside the windows is black and heavy. There might as well be no window at all, really; and he's used to that by now. No windows, no light, no way to gauge location.

But even without light, he can tell that this location is new, with a different sort of air surrounding him, and he can't place it exactly at first. And God, he never thought a change like this could make him panic – but what do you know? A high-pitched, continuous beeping, one he never noticed until this second, speeds up in perfect time with the hard thumping in his chest.

But at the sound, he rolls his head just slightly to the side and sets his wide eyes on the machines to his right. Screens. The light they give off, soft and dim, doesn't help him much. But it's enough to just barely illuminate the walls and the tiles and everything that makes the room he's in a _hospital room_.

The beeping in his right ear does not slow back down.

It's a trick. A lie. Or, at the very least, another change in the game. It doesn't much matter. None of those three would end well for him, anyway.

There's breathing to his left, nearly drowned out by the sounds of the monitors. Deep, even breaths that indicate sleep, and – as if he'd much rather not find out who it is – he rolls his head back that way slowly, expecting a mask. Expecting some nameless face, leaned to one side, asleep – and likely with a loaded gun dangling from his fingertips.

What he sees is far different, and perhaps even worse than the last three options.

It's a dream.

Seeley Booth's face, created perfectly from memory, is not one he'll ever see again. He knows this; they told him this. And for lack of any reason for him to think otherwise, he believed them.

Because what was the last thing he saw before falling unconscious? Certainly not a daring rescue scene. No arrests being made, no FBI uniforms in sight. Instead it was a bloodied mix of shoe heels and the darker side of a wooden baseball bat and a final blurring glance at a random mask as his eyes slipped closed.

No, no rescue by any stretch. It must be drugs, then. Some high-grade hallucinogen. The IV sticking out of his left wrist seems consistent with the conjecture – but the lack of restraints does not. Even so, too tired to lift his other hand to pull the needle out, he decides to give it a rest. Blink his eyes a few times, shake his head, and Booth will be gone, replaced by some other illusion just barely seen in the dark.

He does this slowly, clumsily in his own right – but when he opens his eyes again, Booth is still there. And Sweets can't bring himself to stop staring, his mouth agape just so, as the other man's eyes – real or not – twitch open.

He nearly stops breathing when they find their way to stare back at him.

The beeping in his ears, put musically, could be _prestissimo_ in tempo, for all he's got to compare it to. Even the fastest songs he knows can't quite match it.

"Sweets?" the voice echoes across to him, still sleepy and rough.

But it's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

And yet the tears that start snaking down his cheeks, hot and wet, the jarring _thump-thump-thumping_ of his heart in his chest – they all feel real. All these sensations, all the sounds in the room, what little he can see, they're all too much, too much, too much.

" _Sweets."_ Breathless, tangible relief that only grows.

And he is so, so small.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

September, 2014 | Location Unknown

_If he were to take a moment and really think about what brought him here, perhaps he'd decide that it was him. Perhaps it was his own foolishness that got him here, really – his over-confidence, his unawareness. It's a government conspiracy for God's sake; he should know by now to look around, be careful, to_ not _get ambushed by_ whoever _. The whole Pelant case should have taught him the importance of covering his tracks and embracing the paranoia, but of course, he'd thought the hardest part of his career was over. But it's never over._

_Hell, if he just let Booth go get the damn documents, he wouldn't be here._

_But then – maybe_ Booth _would be here._

_And he wouldn't have that. So Lance Sweets, sitting on the floor with his back leaned up against the lone cot in the room, his legs loosely crossed, decides that the situation is perhaps not the worst in the world. Sure, he'd rather be anywhere but wherever he is right now. He'd much prefer to not still be bleeding from a knife wound in his side, to not feel the throbbing pain in his left wrist, his ribs, the sharp ache in his head._

_But he's alive. He's here, not Booth or Brennan or Daisy or anyone else, so he thanks his stars for that._

_Always the optimist, of course._

_The door swings open fast and bangs against the wall, and as soon as the guards outside – all masked, nameless, faceless – step aside, a woman walks in. In stark contrast to everyone else in this place, she doesn't wear bulletproof clothes or masks. In lieu of all that, all she's got is her strict face and a fierce demeanor about her that suddenly sets Sweets on edge. She seems to notice._

" _Doctor Sweets," she greets, coming to stand just in front of him. The clicks of her heels echo through the tiny room. "A pleasure."_

" _Yeah, I'm sure."_

_He surprises himself with that, but the corner of the woman's mouth just twitches up into an amused smile._

" _I'm sorry it had to come to this, Dr. Sweets," she continues. Sweets detects a few different things in her voice; slight hints of an accent she must have worked hard to get rid of, a stiff roughness that demands respect, submission. But not a single bit of remorse. "But that brilliant team of yours – perhaps they're just a bit_ too _brilliant. They got too close."_

_He huffs an indignant breath and looks her in the eye, unwavering. Keeping his voice even and calm, perhaps the slightest bit accusatory, he manages to put it together._

" _You're behind this. You're behind… all the murders. The payoffs. All of it."_

_She smiles again. Not of happiness, nor of pride, but of the disparaging triumph a snake must feel before it bites off the head of a mouse._

" _We all take our orders from someone, Dr. Sweets. Until the chain ends. That's where you'll find me, surrounded by piles of broken links."_

" _How poetic."_

_He surprises himself yet again, but this time, he just wishes he had the self-preservation to stop. It was the same stupid over-confidence that got him into this mess, and he's got the vague suspicion that it's what's going to get him killed._

" _Very. One of those links, it seems, bears your name. And as soon as your team agrees to stop investigating – all of theirs will fall as well. They'll be out of the game, and this will be over for you."_

_And because he's decided that he can't stop himself, that he's just going to keep being absolutely stupid until someone finally kills him, he lets out a sudden, quick laugh._

" _That's your angle?" he asks. "Use me as bait to get them to stop investigating?"_

_She nods, smiles, says, "If they're smart, and if they don't want to see their friend come back to them in pieces, they will."_

_And Lance Sweets goes on, shaking his head, maintaining the confident air that will no doubt be the death of him._

" _No. They won't," he smiles up at her in spite of the nervousness growing in his chest. "They wouldn't stop their search for the truth, not for anything. Not even for me."_

_She opens her mouth to respond, but he keeps on._

" _And this game you're talking about? You think this is all just one big game, with all of us players, but –"_

_Her smile disappears from her face, replaced by an angry pout. She does not do well with being interrupted, so she raises her voice and squats down so she is face-level with her prisoner._

" _Not all of us players, Dr. Sweets._ You _are players. Your whole team. The guards outside this door, the Bureau, the agents, all playing the game. But me? I'm the master. The dealer. I'm the one who wins in the end, who collects. Every round. Every single time. I win. And anyone who tries to change that fact – they lose. And you'll find the losers must pay a steep price."_

_She stands and takes a few echoing steps to the door._

" _I'm offering your team a way out. They'd be wise to take it."_

_Sweets merely considers this, turning his face down as she walks the rest of the way. As her fingers just barely touch the knob on the door, he looks back up._

" _Will I be having the privilege of knowing the dealer's name?"_

_She turns her head. And she smiles again._

" _I've heard much about you, Dr. Sweets. Much about your brilliance, acuity for lies. My name is Naomi Waller."_

_She opens the door, steps out, and throws a few more words over her shoulder as the door closes behind her._

" _But tell me – am I telling you the truth?"_

_The door closes with a final click – and Sweets is alone._

* * *

January, 2015

Sweets is alone on the other side of the door, and Booth is visibly uncomfortable with that fact. Sure, the psychologist is dead asleep, unlikely to wake up any time soon, but solitude means being vulnerable – both to danger and to yourself. And while Booth was once a betting man, he's no longer one to take a risk with that much weight.

So, leaning against the wall, face to face with the attending doctor, he tries to rush the conversation. Get the words out as quickly as possible and hope that she matches his pace, because as soon as it's done he can return to that worn-down chair by the bed.

"About what time was it when he woke up, Agent Booth?" the doctor is saying, her eyes moving back and forth between Booth and the file in her hands.

"About a quarter to four. It was still dark outside."

She nods. "Did you interact with him at all?"

"I tried," he answers, almost nervously. "He was looking at me when I woke up, but he seemed really… scared. Almost like I was there to hurt him. The heart monitor was going crazy, and I tried to talk to him, but after the first few seconds, it was like I wasn't even there anymore. He didn't say anything, but he fell asleep again a few minutes later."

Another nod, another note scribbled down, another hurried explanation as she says, "It sounds like clear evidence of a minor panic attack. Based on whatever his reality was over the past four months, this sudden change is almost like a culture shock; only in his head, the meaning and results of it are likely far more sinister."

"You mean he thought I was there with him as like – another hostage?"

"Possibly," she says. "He could have thought that. Or maybe he wasn't sure if you were real. Or, depending on the level of psychological sway his captors had over him – maybe he thought you, yourself, were one of them."

Booth is lost for words, breath, as if he were just thrown a punch to the gut in that single moment. A flare of aimless anger crops up somewhere in his chest, because just the very idea – it's insane. He's been spending the past four months searching for Sweets day and night, working around the clock to bring him home safe. Even the smallest insinuation that he would ever cause the younger man harm feels like a direct attack.

And what can he say? It hurts like one. But he knows full well the skewed logic that people can have when the walls are caving in on them. And no matter where that logic really took Lance Sweets, Booth is entirely willing to help guide him back.

But first, he's satisfied with just walking back into the beeping hospital room and taking his seat back by the side of the bed. And he does not intend on leaving it anytime soon.


	6. Chapter 6

_ October, 2014 _

_After two weeks of aimless leads falling flat, Booth pulls up the email on his computer. He's read it so many times by now, he's already got it memorized._

I highly recommend that you stop digging in the Bureau.

_He stares it for another minute more before clicking the reply button; the sender's information is blocked out, hidden – but it's got to go somewhere._

_God, he must be getting desperate. Because even with the small voice of reason whispering in his ear that it's probably a terrible, dangerous idea, he types out a single sentence and hits send almost immediately:_

Or what?

* * *

January, 2015

When Lance Sweets wakes up for the second time, around seven o'clock, when the sun is just starting to rise higher in the sky, Booth is not in the room. This is entirely accidental, but not entirely a bad thing.

He wakes in the same off-white hospital room, with placid winter sunlight shining right in his eyes. He shakes his head, and his eyes adjust – and hell if he doesn't feel that. As he slides back into awareness, he becomes further aware of the dull ache in his head, the twinge in his ribs, the harsh sting on the skin of his back, right where his shirt rubs against the backs of his shoulders.

That last bit – that's what makes his breath catch in his throat. That's what makes four months' worth of hell rush back to him, and his heart starts pounding in his chest at the thought that it's not over. (Because it will _never_ be over, not while he's still held against his will, and not while Waller is still breathing and free. And with the pull she has in the FBI – she will be free until the day she stops breathing.)

A nurse enters at the sound of heart monitor alarms, and she tries her best. He'll give her that. But just because she doesn't wear a mask doesn't mean she's innocent, and until she can prove otherwise, there's no reason for him to believe she isn't working for the same people who landed him here, just popping in to fix what's broken before throwing him back into the dark.

The proof comes just minutes later, in the form of Seeley Booth pushing his way into the room in between the nurse's faded mantras: _It's okay, everything's alright, you're safe. It's okay, everything's alright, you're safe._

He sees Seeley Booth, and everything in the room goes silent. Even the thoughts in his own mind, they screech to a sudden halt. And – although he hates the fact that it's projected out for the room to see and hear – his heart slows down. He remembers last night; and all at once, Booth seems so very, _very_ real. He stares and stares until, in spite of his own shell-shocked expression, the high beeping goes even and the alarms go silent of their own accord.

"Hey," is all Booth can bring himself to say in that single moment, when reality crashes down on the two of them and they're left to decide where that leaves them.

It leaves Booth to dismiss the nurse and gently, gently wrap his arms around Sweets' shoulders, as good a hug as he can manage with the IV still sticking out from the psychologist's wrist and the voice in his head screaming that he shouldn't touch Sweets while he's still so tense and terrified and fresh from an obvious physical beating.

(The voice in his heart, on the other hand, is telling him to stay right where he is, holding Sweets in place as tightly as he can, as if that could keep him close and safe forever. That is the voice he's listening to.)

He stays until after one of Sweets' hands comes hesitantly to brush against his back. He stays a few breathless minutes longer, until the other one reaches up quickly, grabbing onto the back of Booth's shirt, his shoulder and gripping it as tightly as his fingers would allow.

Seeley Booth is not a person in this moment, but a lifeline.

He supposes Lance Sweets just happens to be one as well.

* * *

_ October, 2014 _

_Just hours after Booth's reply, the second email comes at the stroke of midnight:_

Or your twenty-nine year old psychologist never makes it to thirty.

* * *

_He wakes up dizzy and dazed, tied to a chair, face to face with two masked nobodies and the distant echo of Naomi Waller's voice._

" _I apologize for the quick start," she says without a hint of apology in her voice as soon as his eyes open. He's lost count of how many times he's slept since his first and only other meeting with the cryptic dealer. He's lost on an exact number; but it's been a few days. "But it seems that your colleagues don't quite understand what will happen if they continue to spin their wheels in my direction."_

_He looks around. There's a bat gripped tight just in front of him. A sock of all things, with something heavy – maybe a handful of change, maybe nuts and bolts, who knows – gathered by the toe. A belt hanging from a bar across the room._

" _And since I hear you've got quite the computer genius on your side, that rules out a visual explanation."_

_He tries to find her somewhere in his field of vision, but she is nowhere. Her voice is everywhere. He, at least for the moment, is unafraid of this._

" _What do you mean?"_

_She appears like a ghost, walking out from behind him with her back still turned. She's got a microphone in one hand, the kind music hobbyists use to record, and starts plugging it into a nearby laptop. She does not turn her head at all when she answers._

" _It means you have to scream, Dr. Sweets. Sincerely and truly."_

_He's a quick thinker. So he comes to the conclusion almost immediately. It gives his stomach time to drop low enough, and it gives his mind a chance to finally let fear in, to adequately panic before the recording light turns on – an angry red threat._

_It's not long before it starts, and the bat, the sock with what he learns are screws lumped inside, they both become useful. The belt does not move from its spot the entire time._

_And the entire time is long – because he tries his damned hardest not to make a sound at first. He clenches his jaw shut and screws his eyes and breathes quickly and deliberately through his nose, intent on remaining quiet._

_But when something hard and fast slams into his stomach, he can't stop a muted grunt from forcing its way out, an involuntary groan. From there, it escalates._

_Soon, he's screaming without even hearing himself, and for some reason he can't understand – they don't stop there._

* * *

_The recording finds its way to Booth's inbox a few hours after Sweets finally falls asleep, his body practically pulsing in the dark._

_Booth finds it at work and slowly brings himself to play it._

_The moment he closes the message out is the moment he decides that he can now sympathize perfectly with the kind of cold killers he's put away over the years._

_It's also the first moment that he starts to cry under the weight of everything. There was the fight for his life four months back. There was prison._

_And now there's the ever-present reminder that he's spent his life working to protect everyone, but when it really comes down to it – he can't protect anyone._

_(Not even family.)_


	7. Chapter 7

_November 26, 2014_

" _Well, Dr. Sweets," Waller's voice echoes all around him. She is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. "It's been two months. And your own friends and family still won't stop investigating. Not even to save your life."_

_And he lifts his head wearily and smiles, his teeth smeared with blood and his face covered in swollen purple bruises._

" _Good."_

_It's an airy, breathless wheeze. But it gets the point across._

_Still, she continues as if he never made a sound. "I wonder how that must feel. To be captive for months, to stare death so plainly in the face – and have the only people that could save you_ choose _not to. See, all of this is voluntary, Dr. Sweets."_

_There's some mix of sweat and blood dripping slowly down from his hairline, headed straight for his eyes. She appears in front of him, the only other person in the room, and swipes her thumb deliberately above his eyebrow, smearing this too. He stares up at her as she pulls her hand away._

_Once she steps away, the blinking red light in the distance is the only prominent thing in sight. This time he knows a camera is recording; with some of the money she's collected, it seems, she's invested in black curtains covering every wall, anything and everything that keeps his location a pure mystery, even to the frantically analyzing eye. Eyes. Whatever._

_"You_ could _beg, Lance. You're tired. You want to go home, and your friends can make that happen. You could beg and scream and plead for them to stop investigating and bring you home; I'm sure they'd find that particularly difficult to ignore."_

_She turns her head just slightly, to half-face the camera. That makes little difference, though. Her face is still hidden in perfect shadow, her body a mere silhouette on the wall._

" _After all – this will be the final request."_

_Beg away, Lance Sweets. Beg for your life. The invitation is open._

_She starts to call the Nobodies back into the room, but before the door can open, she finds a bloody mess of spit just inches from her shoes and the face that sent it glaring at her defiantly._

" _How 'bout instead," he says, the rough croak of his voice echoing through the open space. "You go straight to Hell."_

_She stares at him for just another moment longer; and she smiles. Spinning on her heels, she stands and starts walking towards the door, throwing words over her shoulder as she leaves and the Nobodies come close, a different set of similarly blunt objects in their hands._

" _Oh, I intend to. However, I think we both know that won't be happening for a long, long time."_

* * *

_Booth finds the video just after work, and he and Bones watch it with all-consuming dread once Christine has gone to sleep._

_Once it's over, Booth can't breathe. There's a hard tightness in his chest, and a dizzying edge to his vision._

_He can't breathe._

_Beside him, he hears Brennan's chest quiver and shake as she draws in air, and he hears her whisper:_

" _Is he still alive?"_

_He finds his breath eventually, but not a definite answer._

" _Yeah," he says, because he can feel it. His confidence, however – is just beginning to fade. "Yeah, he – he's alive. He's alive."_

 _But where's his_ proof? _Where's his physical evidence? Feelings won't help him in court, and they certainly won't help him get anywhere. Lance Sweets is still missing. He's still gone._

_And Booth and Brennan and everyone else is left to spin their wheels and hope and hope and hope._

* * *

_November 28, 2014_

_It has been two months and three days since Lance Sweets was stolen from the pavement of Sanderson Chemical, and it's been one day since the lackluster Thanksgiving where Booth made his silent decision._

_He walks into the lab, dragging his feet, and everyone's eyes are directly on him as he says it:_

" _Put everything away. This case is over. We're done."_

_His eyes never left the ground as he said it; and when he turns and walks back out of the Jeffersonian's doors, nobody stops him. Nobody says a damn thing._

* * *

January, 2015

If Seeley Booth was a dream in himself, then Daisy Wick is a ghost. She is a ghost who looks and smells and sounds like everything he ever loved, and when she hugs him after four long months, he reaches up, breathes her in and holds her tight and decides that he never wants to let go ever again.

She pulls away finally, and has to fight the urge to gently pull her back; but before his fingers fall back to the bed, he notices something.

Or, rather – a lack of something.

Daisy's stomach is far flatter than it was the last time he saw her. He stares. She smiles, a bittersweet upturn of her lips.

"Our baby boy was born on November 20th. Seven pounds, six ounces. Healthy and – a little colicky, to be honest – but still very, very happy."

And the look in his eyes is difficult to place. It's some heartbreaking mix of awe and love – tinged with unspoken regret. He's lost for words.

Thankfully, Daisy's hand finds its way to his own, and grips his fingers tight. And he doesn't need words for that.

He never did.

* * *

_December, 2014_

_It has been three weeks since the investigation was halted and their wheels screeched to a sudden stop. It's just past the three month mark, now, since their psychologist disappeared into thin air, and there have been no messages – visual, audio, email or otherwise – in twenty-six days. Pure radio silence._

_It has been exactly three days since Booth adjusted the information on the APB. And now, stopping in well-worn tracks in the driveway, he turns to Brennan suddenly. Cold wind is starting to blow his hair back and mute whatever revelation is just springing forward; but his voice is stronger._

" _They're covering it all up."_

" _What?" Brennan's hand barely brushes the passenger door's handle. She steps out from the other side of the SUV and stares. Booth's eyes are wide._

" _It's been a month since we've heard anything from them. A month, and we did what they said. We stopped investigating, so – we should have Sweets back. But what's to stop us from going right back to the grind once he's safe?"_

_She doesn't answer, but she knows full well: absolutely nothing._

" _And he can't be dead. Because if they killed him, then they know that we'll stop at_ nothing _to get to them. He's alive. They're just covering their tracks. They're making sure we can't follow them."_

_The wind around them howls and rushes through the trees, blowing the last of autumn's leaves to the frosted ground._

" _They're getting out of dodge."_

* * *

January

It has been exactly three days since Lance Sweets woke up out of the line of direct danger, and he has not said more than a handful of words since. This is a first for the psychologist who was always politely hard-pressed to _just shut up already, please, a_ nd while this silence is nerve-wracking – invasive, even – the hospital releases him easily enough.

It's the simplest release he's had in a long, long time; the attending doctor just sends him on his way with a prescription for painkillers and firm-ish instructions to be back for a follow-up sometime in the near future. Contact information for a trauma therapist is written in the margin of a take-home form, but it isn't given so much as a second glance.

(Still, throughout all of the doctor's instructions, he nodded along like a good little hospital patient. A good little perfect posterchild of an ex-hostage about to be reintroduced to his own life. It's over painlessly enough, if the word can be applied.)

Which leads him to the door. All Sweets has got on him are the clothes Daisy brought him from home – his home, her home, their home – so he's got nothing to carry. It's just him and her, walking through the lobby, with both of his hands in his pockets and her arm hooked loosely on his elbow.

She slips right out at the open doorway as Sweets stops walking, and she quickly turns her head back. Sweets is just standing there, glancing down at his feet and the carpeted floor beneath them. After a moment, he looks up to the street out before him, catches sight of the sunlight filling the open space around him. He's hesitating.

But then Daisy extends her hand – and he catches sight of the chipped pink nail polish, the bracelet he gave her for her birthday years ago, the mismatched rings on her fingers. He trusts her. He'd trust her with his life; after all, that's what she is. He finds it easy enough to reach out and find her hand, and she gently pulls him out onto the sidewalk.

It's a short walk to the corner where she parked her car, and the entire way, he's turning his head to glance all around him. The streets sign a few yards back. The snow-covered branches of a distant tree. The belligerent traffic lights. Mostly, though, it's his own shadow that grab his attention, and once he reaches the passenger side of Daisy's car, the words form.

"I didn't think I'd see it again," he whispers, not meeting her eyes, but blinking up at the winter sky. "The sun."

And she pauses briefly, but says nothing at first. Instead, she wordlessly crosses over and does what she's always done: she hugs him. She presses her lips gently to his forehead and stands there for as long as the frozen wind will allow, and once they pull apart, they fall into their seats, and Daisy starts the car.

"You can see it all you want now," she promises, her voice so full of certainty he can't wrap his mind around. And with that, she pulls away from the curb, and they leave the hospital behind. It's the only thing they really leave behind, it seems.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

**Part Three: Twilight / the period of evening between daylight and darkness**

"If people you knew disappeared, there was a chance they might stay alive if you did not cause trouble. This was the scarring psychosis in the country.  
Death, loss, was 'unfinished,' so you could not walk through it."

\- Michael Ondaatje, Anil's Ghost

* * *

_December _

_The Potomac River, running for over four hundred miles through five different cities, through several different states, is a wide, clear river full of icy water in the middle of December. At its mouth is Chesapeake Bay – similarly half-frozen, but placid in the cold._

_Booth has been there once before. But only once, when there was a hot sun shining down and people mulling about and all sorts of chaotic sounds echoing around his head. Now there's nothing. No sound but the vague movement of water against the bank, no sun peeking out from the clouds across the sky. And in place of the crowds is just the outline of a single other person, standing out like a silhouette against the hazy white sky just behind him._

_He walks up to the shadow's back, and takes a few steps more until they're standing side by side, by the very edge of a rocky inlet's shore._

" _You stopped the case, didn't you?" Lance Sweets' voice is not accusatory as he says it, his chin tilted just slightly to the side. Instead, it's a simple question._

_Booth just nods his head at first. Because the case is over; the government's lies, the conspiracies and fraud, they're not his problem anymore. As wrong as it feels in the back of his mind – it's the trade he made._

" _I did," he finally says, and Sweets doesn't say anything after that. He just keeps looking out at the water, his eyes distant and far away. "What do you think about that?"_

_It takes a moment, but the other man finally pulls his eyes away from whatever's out on the horizon and glances sidelong at Booth._

" _Me? Well…"_

_His eyebrows gently pull together in silent, careful thought, and as another moment passes by, his face goes calm again. He just shrugs._

" _It's not what I would have done. But your call."_

_Booth stares._

" _What would you have done?"_

_And Sweets smiles._

" _That's a good question," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning back towards the bay. There are edges of pink just starting to form behind the clouds – a blurred, foggy sunset._

" _What would I have done?"_

* * *

_Booth is woken up by a crude alarm buzzing in his ear, and frustration is the first thing his mind decides to feel._

_Because, God – what he wouldn't give for just another second standing with his best friend by his side. Even if it is a brief, joyless dream._

* * *

January

He sits on a chair that is far too soft, in a room that is far too bright. The culture shock of having his still-girlfriend standing next to him with a bottle in hand, instead of a ghost with a gun or a bat or belt or _whatever,_ is still fresh and jolting, but regardless – the baby boy nestled comfortably in his arms is soft and calm, and he finds he is perfectly able to match his own breathing with the gentle rhythm of his son's.

His _son's._ The infant is right here, sleeping with his head resting in the crook of Sweets' elbow, and yet the moment still doesn't seem entirely real. And in spite of his calmed breathing, the psychologist finds himself rigid, nervous – as if the illusion would disappear if he wasn't careful.

Daisy, by his side, leans down until her chin is resting on his shoulder and her arms are looped loosely around his neck.

And, as always, she can read his mind. She somehow intrinsically knows the one question still on his mind; he doesn't need to speak a word.

"Don't worry," she says, reaching for a card by the nightstand. It's a picture of the baby in Sweets' arms, announcing a birth with the baby's name written in gold letters across the top of it. "We found the note you had in your car."

He looks at her for a moment, then back at the card. And then he just stares at his son and smiles.

* * *

There are countless movies, they're all quite sure, about homecomings, but none of them spring to mind while the Jeffersonian's forensics team waits somewhat impatiently for a familiar face to come into view. Nothing particular comes to mind, but they've all seen tropes. The slow-motion run-to, tight-armed embraces, happy faces reuniting over drinks.

In earnest, no one really knows what to expect. But judging from what they've all been told, they're more than certain that it won't be some sad movie's climax.

And true to form, it's not.

When Lance Sweets walks into the Jeffersonian lab for the first time in four months, led along by Daisy's guiding hand, his footsteps seem to echo through the halls. A familiar sound – just different in its frequency, its capacity to haunt. And once his eyes fall onto the platform and every inch of lab equipment nearby and all the expectant faces waiting for him – the sound of his own footsteps goes silent. So does everything else.

And all at once, it's not a homecoming anymore; it's a staring contest.

Angela blinks first, hesitantly coming forward to hug him around the shoulders with a breathless, "God," whispered into the air behind his back. His head goes down, hiding his face from view, and the people around him make no assumptions.

Angela, however, pulls back after a few seconds, once Sweets's body goes tense, his shoulders rising with quiet nerves. She gets the message. And as soon as they can clearly see each other's faces, the psychologist offers a small smile.

No one can quite read his eyes.

In the end, he can only bear to stand in the lab for twenty minutes, and by the time he leaves – by the time all the strained hugs and frog-throated _We missed you, buddy's_ have come to a close – they find the air around them charged with a sad realization. The fact that this is not an end, but slow, diminutive pause.

* * *

_January 14, 2015_

_There was a strange lull in the beatings that he couldn't quite bring himself to measure. Disregarding the fact that there was never any way for him to tell, with no windows or clocks or any distinct way to measure time other than word of his captors' mouths, he found himself unwilling to try._

_Because a break from being the object of leverage, a break from being thrown to the floor and pounded on, a break from having to put any thought at all into this chaotic hell of a government conspiracy was just that: a break. The exact length shouldn't matter, providing it is long. Which it was. It was a conscious choice not to concern himself with it._

_But now as the door opens completely for the first time in weeks, he finds himself asking what the reason was for the pause. And what the reason is for pulling him out again._

_Ah. But he supposes that doesn't matter either. Whatever the reason, he'll still have to face what's coming. He has no choice, after all._

_And as they drop him crudely into that same, familiar chair and secure the bonds, he wonders just how much worse this time is going to be._

_It doesn't take long for him to find out._

_Waller doesn't make an appearance this time. There is no red light. The black curtains have been stripped from the walls, and thus the sound of whatever blunt objects the Nobodies are using echo off the concrete upon impact with his skin. It is with some detached interest that he notes this._

_He hears that simple sound mixed in with laughter. With muffled excitement. With the sound of his own eventual grunting, yelling, whimpering. There are no words._

_The chair falls right over partway in, and familiar spots start flickering across his eyes the second the floor rises up to meet his forehead. The bonds break off, but this makes no difference._

_It's not as if he could find the strength to just get up and leave, anyway. And besides – they have guns._

_There is no way for him to tell how long he lies there, face down on the concrete floor. Long enough for them to finally make use of the belt that always hung across the room like a threat. Long enough for the cold tip of a knife to trace across his back in a strange, methodical pattern. Long enough for them to flip him onto the bleeding words with one of their boots and reach down to grip him by the shoulders once they're done._

_He blacks out just as they're hauling him up and out of the room._

_And after that, there's nothing._

* * *

March

Two months pass since the day Lance Sweets turned up alive in the middle of January, and if they're all honest – not much changes. The shrink's ribs knitted and healed. The stitches have disappeared from his hairline, and he's offered no word on the newer scars across his shoulders.

In fact, he offers very few words now. Still as skinny as he was in January, still vaguely pale and decidedly silent, he bears a striking resemblance to a ghost, a visual reminder to everyone around him of what the result so easily could have been. He remains tense, nervous, hesitant, as if the world around him could disappear at any time, even as he walks quietly into Angela's office, his hands balled loosely in his own pockets.

Angela looks up immediately and smiles.

"Hi, Sweets," she greets, content with the fact that the psychologist walked in on his own accord. Walking into her office typically precedes words, conversation. She welcomes those gladly. "What's up?"

And he bites his bottom lip for a few moments first, as if caught in a second-guess of his own actions. But then he sets his gaze down to the floor and speaks. "I have a name for you. To run through the database."

He means the FBI database, of course. The one that has every case report, every medical file, every employee record. She just nods at first, slow, curious.

"Sure, yeah."

Her eyebrows knitted just so, she crosses over to her computer and motions for him to follow. She has the search page open in a second – although, if she's honest, she wishes she didn't.

"Name is _Naomi Waller."_ He says it as if it's something he never wants to say again. This time, Angela allows herself to make an assumption about it.

Still, she types it in.

Nothing.

"Could you – is there another way for you to find it? If maybe the files were deleted, you could still track them down, right?" Sweets is saying more words to her now than he's said in the last month, and something in Angela's heart breaks at the fact that she can't. Or rather – the fact that she _can_. But she won't.

"I… could," she finally says, honest. "But that would require… a lot of hacking. And the name could even be fake."

He stares for just a moment, and his own mounting confusion begs him to continue. "You can hack, though… right? This time there's evidence. We have evidence of crime. There's a name, and I know it's real, we just need to… we just need to find her. And then we can stop this. For good."

And God, his eyes are practically begging her. But the fact remains.

She straightens up from her computer and her eyes dart away.

"Uh… Sweets," she starts, wondering exactly how to say it. But there's never a right way, she supposes. "I think – I think there's something you should know about the case..."


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

"You stopped the case," Sweets' voice is accusatory as he says it, a stark contrast to the flat tone he's had since January. This time there's inflection. This time there's anger.

Booth looks up from his computer to see the psychologist suddenly standing there – off the clock as he's been, dressed in casual, everyday clothes, looking outright betrayed. And the older agent responds with a pitched hum, a wordless sort of "huh?" that does little more than give him an extra second.

"You heard me. _You stopped the case."_ Sweets comes right up to Booth's desk, leaning against the edge with his palms pressed hard against the wood.

It takes a second, but Booth collects himself. He nods.

"Yeah. I did," he says plainly, almost as if it was obvious from the start, and the tension in the psychologist's jaw is suddenly unmistakable. And all at once, Sweets rounds on him, having barely given him time to finish his last word.

"When do we ever stop cases, Booth? Huh? It's a _conspiracy,_ one that's been getting people killed from the very start, and you just step away?"

Carefully, Booth stands from his seat and walks around the desk, so the two are face to face.

"Yeah," is the beginning of Booth's offered response, but before he can finish it, the other man goes on.

"So you're just _giving up._ Is that it? It got too hard and too close, so you just _gave up,_ while people keep on getting killed and shoved away like it's nothing, and you're letting everyone responsible get away with it!"

"Sweets –"

"Where's your sense of justice, Booth? You signed on for this job so you could help people, so why the hell are you –"

"Sweets!"

Booth shouts Sweets into silence, but the agitation, the anger, the challenge in his _everything_ – it all remains.

"They were going to kill you," Booth says, soft but deadly serious. And what follows is just a few more ticks of brewing quiet.

Sweets is firm as he answers, "It's not a safe job. I knew that when _I signed up for it_. That was _always_ a risk! It was one I took every day because I knew I was helping people, just like you! You have no idea –" He takes a breath. "Do you know what kept me sane for four months, Booth? You can only spend so long in a dark cement room covered in your own blood without going absolutely _fucking_ insane, and do you know why I didn't?"

Booth doesn't answer, but instead looks away. His eyes find the floor in no time.

"Because every time I closed my eyes, I knew why I was there. I knew that as long as I was alive, you had the chance to get somewhere. You could have! And now everything I went through for four months, the brand new scars on my back, it's all for nothing; and not just that! They're getting away with it! And you know they're just going to go back to their game. So tell me, is that justice? How can you –"

"What was I supposed to do, Sweets?" with an edge to his voice, the older agent brings his head up. "Was I supposed to leave you there to die?"

"Yes!" is the first response. Thought comes shortly after, however. "I don't know."

And before either of them can blink, Booth's voice has risen considerably, and they're both acutely aware of the open door across the room. This doesn't stop him, though.

"Well, Sweets, I'm glad you value your own life so little! You're willing to get yourself killed over a case that never would have been solved, but you know what? _I'm not!_ We can't win everything, Sweets, and I'm not willing to get you killed before you turn thirty, got it? Especially when you'd be dying for nothing."

There is a breath, then, a half-pause. But Booth doesn't continue.

Instead, Sweets just shakes his head at the floor and says, "That's what I signed up for. We need to open it again."

And Booth practically _feels_ the anger moving through him in that moment; he could yell. He could scream at the top of his lungs, but rather than that, he goes quiet again. The intensity in his voice, though, is not lost.

"You don't get it, do you?" he says. "The people behind all of this, they're prepared to do _anything_ to make sure they'll never lose. _Anything!_ You think it would've ended once they killed you? You're just another game piece! We're all pieces to them, and once they can't use you as leverage anymore, they'd move on to someone else – someone _far_ more vulnerable than you or me."

Sweets still does not look at him. He doesn't lift his gaze from the carpet, instead finding his shoulders tight and his body stiff; he doesn't want to hear it anymore.

" _Everyone_ is at risk. Not just you and me and the rest of the team, but everyone. Christine. Michael. Hell, even _your son._ Your _four month old son,_ Sweets! Did they sign up for any of this?"

No.

"Tell me what you would have done, Sweets. If they touched a hair on that little boy's head, if they touched a hair on any of their heads – what would you do?"

* * *

"He's great with him, really," Daisy Wick says softly to Brennan, as if the walls of the lab somehow could hear her. The whole time, she doesn't look up from the femur in her gloved hands. "Lance spends almost all his time with him. And the baby can't tell something's changed."

She pauses, gently placing the bone back on the table and moving to the next one. In the silence, Brennan offers nothing.

"I can, though. I mean… sometimes I think he tries to pretend he's fine. Like he'll wake up in middle of the night and try to act like it wasn't a nightmare that did it. He'll give me a smile in the morning like waking up in our bed is as normal now as it used to be, like he thinks I don't notice. But I do."

A beat.

"I do notice."

* * *

April 

Three months and a day after he was found alive, the FBI is more than willing to allow Lance Sweets to return to his work – just with a single caveat. An evaluation by a peer psychologist is entirely necessary before he can return to any facet of his job, and then, once that's passed, shorter monthly tests to make double sure he's fine.

Unfortunately, he doesn't even make it that far.

He fails the very first psych exam, and no one is quite sure why they're surprised about that fact. The man can hardly stand to be touched; he avoids the lab like it will kill him to step inside, and he hasn't spoken a word to Booth in weeks. No one has ever brought themselves to ask how he's sleeping, but they're sure that Daisy can attest to an answer of _not well._

If Sweets had passed the exam, they'd all be severely questioning the examiner.

He's a barely contained mess, in other words. It hurts to think, even more to say; but they see it. Everyone sees it.

* * *

Towards the very end of slow work day, Seeley Booth looks up from his work to see a man standing in the doorway, uncertain. Sweets is leaning into the room with his feet still in the hallway, both hands gripping the doorframe to keep him upright. His eyes are on the floor, and he makes no sound.

He only looks up once Booth speaks, offers a soft, "Hey."

"Hey," the reply comes, but nothing follows.

They stay like that for a moment, respectively curious and hesitant. Booth looks the kid up and down, noting everything from the slight darkness under his eyes to the folds and creases in his too-neat button down that seem far too pronounced.

"Everything okay?"

Sweets shakes his head slowly.

"No," he says after a few moments. "But you knew that already."

And Booth just nods, a solemn motion of his head. He starts to say something else along the same lines, but immediately pauses. The psychologist is seeking him out for the first time in God-knows-how-long. This is their first real conversation in weeks, and he's not inclined to take backwards steps.

"What's up?" he finally says, deciding that it will work just fine.

This time, Sweets finally lets go of the doorframe and takes a few slow steps into the room. He ends up meeting Booth in front of the desk, the two of them standing just above the two chairs facing it.

"I, uh…" the shrink's eyes find the floor again, and his hands find the insides of his pockets. "I failed the psych exam."

A nod, a soft-spoken, "I know."

After another drawn out stretch of silence, Sweets continues. "Daisy and I were talking… and…"

Booth wonders, just for a second, what could be so hard to say that Sweets has to force it through his teeth. He finds out as soon as Sweets finds the voice to continue.

"We think it's probably better to be… not here. Somewhere else. Since I can't work, or… and there's no case."

It takes a moment for that to sink in.

"So you're leaving," Booth says, not quite believing it as he does. But the more he thinks about it – the less shocked he feels about it.

It takes a long time, but Sweets eventually nods. "Yeah."

"Where would you go?"

And the other man lets out a pent up breath and says, "Well… Daisy's parents live on Long Island, in Manhasset. They took care of the baby a lot before I came home, so somewhere around there wouldn't be a bad place to go. Plus I grew up not far from there, so I know the area. There are a few forensics labs that Daisy says should take her almost right away, since she worked with Dr. Brennan for so long."

He trails off.

"Will you come back? Ever?"

Booth says it, and Sweets very nearly cringes at the uncertainty in his voice, the uncertainty in his own head.

"I don't know."

They both find their way to look at the floor, avoiding each other's eyes.

"When are you leaving?"

"I don't know. Soon. Maybe in a few weeks."

And they stand there in silence again for the longest time, the truth out and unpolished. They stay like that until Sweets holds out a hesitant hand, his fingers hovering and waiting for the connection. Booth grabs it immediately, gives his hand a firm shake.

Without warning – though this wasn't exactly the best thing to do, he's sure – he pulls the younger man close and wraps his arms around his shoulders. It takes a moment, but Sweets' arms eventually come up to return the hug, to just barely brush Booth's back.

When they finally pull apart, it's a final, wordless goodbye. Sweets walks out the door, and Booth considers the fact that this case was never going to have a happy ending.

He knew it from the start

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

"They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity,  
the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, _they carried gravity."_  
― Tim O'Brien, _The Things They Carried_

* * *

 

July 6, 2018

The morning starts off with a child wildly crying; that much is not shocking in itself. It's become a fairly regular thing for both the camp counselors around the room and for the father trying his best to calm his son down, but it rarely lasts. Five minutes tops, most days.

But as it stands, today is not _most days._

"Hey, Peter, Peter," the father says, kneeling down again so he's eye-level. "It's okay, Petie! Camp is fun, you said so yourself."

And with heaving, uneven breaths, the little boy shakes his head. "N-no, camp is _not_ fun!" And he goes on crying, with his tiny hands covering his eyes. His father sighs.

"You know, I hear you might get to play soccer today! How does that sound?"

Not motivating at all, if the jerky motion of the child's shaking head, shoulders, and body is enough to get the point across. There's another sob, and by the time the father gently removes the kid's hands from his face, his cheeks are covered in tears.

"I want Aunt R _o_ sie!" he whines as his father's thumbs softly start to scrub his face, wiping away the tear drops.

"I know, buddy," the father says. "I miss Aunt Rosie too, but she had to go home. Do you want to call her later?"

He probably does, but he doesn't say so.

And the father stands up and takes a step towards the table, with the little boy gripping the cuff of his left sleeve for dear life. When the man squats down again, he has a piece of construction paper and a few sparkly crayons in his free hand.

"Here, why don't we make a card for Aunt Rosie, okay? You can draw her a picture, and we can mail it when we get home. Alright?"

Not quite. He shakes his head again and keeps on bawling.

Another sigh. The paper and crayons are placed gently on the floor, and the father stands up again, this time scooping his child up and holding him with one arm against his hip.

"Alright, come on. We'll go take a walk, okay?" he says, nodding to the counselor by the table, and he carries him into the hallway. As he walks, the little boy still cries – just marginally quieter, into the man's neck.

"Petie, buddy," he murmurs as he walks. "You like camp! Remember how you won that award last week? What was it? You were the Soccer Star?"

"Y-yeah."

"Yeah! You had so much fun last week. Remember? Camp is so much fun. I wish I could go to camp."

The little boy lifts his head from his father's collarbone and looks at him, saying with a big smile in spite of the tears, "You can come to camp, Daddy! You can play soccer too!"

"I can, can I?" the man says. "That sounds like fun, but I have to go to work this morning. Plus, camp is for kids, not grown-ups, you silly goose!"

And with that, and with a kiss to the little boy's cheek, he earns a quiet little giggle.

"Alright, so what do you say we go back to the room? So you can draw Aunt Rosie a picture?"

"No-o!" The boy's arms find their way around the man's neck yet again, and the father sighs.

"Fine, fine. We'll wait a few minutes."

And in those few minutes, they walk around the facility. They walk by the basketball courts and the door leading to the pool; they walk past the soccer field and the baseball field, and finally, they find themselves standing by the door to another program's drop off.

"This is the big kid room!" Peter says, using one arm to point it out, in miniature tour-guide fashion.

"I can see that, buddy," the father says with a laugh, but when he follows his son's arm and looks in – he sees something of interest. Or, rather, someone.

"Hey, Peter," the man says, putting his son down and squatting low just as he'd done before. "Do you see that man over there?"

He points over to a tall man in a suit, talking to another parent as the blonde little girl beside him bounces a basketball against the wooden floor.

The girl is seven years old; her father probably doesn't want his age to be considered. Still.

Peter's father knows them both. And he supposes, if he's honest with himself, that this is not some wild coincidence. The little girl was, after all, enrolled in Peter's program, too. (Once upon a time.)

"What man?" Peter asks, eyeing the room full of big kids and grown-ups. They're all the same to the three-and-a-half year old, but once his father clarifies – "The man with the red tie! And you can see his purple socks if you look close." – he spots him. "Oh! Yeah!"

"Did you know that that man has the same first name as you?" the father says, and Peter's eyes go wide with excitement and practical wonder, as if the very prospect of sharing a name just hadn't existed before. Well. Perhaps with a name like his, that conclusion makes perfect sense.

"Who is that?" the question comes, and the father smiles.

"That's Daddy's best friend," so the explanation goes. "Hey, Petie, do you think you could go give him a great big hug?"

The child considers this. "But I don't know him. Mommy said I'm not allowed to hug strangers."

And the father says, "I know, buddy, and you _shouldn't_ hug strangers. But he's not a stranger, and I'm right here, so you don't need to worry. If you don't want to, though, you don't have to."

Suddenly, the little boy looks serious, thoughtful.

"Is he nice?" Peter finally asks, and his father smiles wide and laughs.

"Yeah, buddy," he says. "He's very, very nice."

And after a moment, the decision is made.

"Okay!"

* * *

"Yeah, so if you could take her tomorrow, my wife could pick her up at six-thirty, and –"

Seeley Booth does not quite make it to the end of his sentence before a very small someone attaches himself to his lower half with a soft jolt. He looks down suddenly – and sees a tiny face looking up at him with a wide grin and a vibrating giggle. He's this little mess of dimples and cropped curls of dark hair.

"Hi!" the little boy giggles, and Booth can only stare for a moment; it's not every morning that a young mystery child runs up and hugs him.

"Hi," the agent finally says, unable to keep from smiling. The kid currently hugging his legs has a grin that's practically contagious. "What's up, buddy?"

"My daddy says you have the same name as me!" the boy says, and as Booth kneels down to meet him, he nods up at the other parent in a silent thanks, and then to Christine to send her over to her camp group.

"Yeah?" Booth says, now glancing over at the doorway to find no one standing in it. He looks back at the little boy, who's bouncing with excitement. " _That's_ cool. What's your name?"

Jabbing a tiny thumb at his own chest, he answers, "My name's Seeley Peter Wick-Sweets!"

And Booth can only blink at him at first as he processes this, and once his brain catches up, he finds the voice to say, "Wow! Well you know what my name is? I'm Seeley Joseph Booth. Nice to meet you!"

He shakes the child's hand with renewed enthusiasm, and is about to say more when the little boy nods his head.

"My daddy said you're his best friend!"

There's another pause – and then a smile.

"He did, huh? Speaking of Daddy, where is he? Could you find him for me?"

Seeley Peter Wick-Sweets looks over to the door and, just like the man who shares his name, sees no one. But he knows full well who's standing against the wall, just around the doorframe.

"Yup! Daddy!" he calls, and he toddles over to the door, where his father appears and scoops him right up. He lifts him up as high as his arms can reach, and sets him down so the boy is sitting on his shoulders.

And by the time Lance Sweets makes his way to the other side of the room, Peter's giggling wildly once again, thrilled with the view from his six-foot boost.

"Using your kid to tell me you're back, huh, Sweets?" Booth says with a smile, reaching out to shake his hand. At the same time, though, the agent's not quite sure what he expected; he _tried_ to keep in touch with the kid, he really did. But after a few weeks, he supposes it just fell through. And with three years without more than a few texts between them – well. It makes enough sense.

"Hey, why else do we have kids? Right, Petie?" Sweets replies quickly, and from up above, the little boy presses his cheek against his father's head, not quite a hug, but a sure sign of affection nonetheless. "Here…"

Peter's feet find the floor once again.

"Do you see that girl over there, in the polka-dot dress?" Sweets asks, and Peter does. "Well her name's Christine. She's another one of Daddy's friends. Why don't you go play with her and her friend? I'll be right here."

"Okay!" the little boy says, and off he goes.

And then there were two.

They stand in silence for a long, stretching moment as they watch the kids. They've got a basketball between them, and since the three year old's coordination is far from refined, they opt to roll it back and forth. It's a sight to see, really.

After a while, it's Booth who speaks first.

"So," he says, hands in his pockets. "You're back in town. You staying?"

And it takes an even longer pause and a deep, stalling breath for the younger man to answer.

"Looks like it." He offers a soft, contented smile and no further explanation. For a moment, he looks about to say something more – but his son catches his eye as he tries to pick up the basketball Christine sent his way. Both of the Peter's tiny arms are wrapped around the thing, and the sight of such a small child trying his hardest brings a wide grin to the psychologist's face.

"How's Daisy?" Booth asks after the longest time, trying his best. Because, while he's slowly come to care for the young woman in the past few years, that's not really the question on his mind. Hell if he'll ask it outright, though. Still, Sweets looks at him and nods.

"She's good," he answers. "Excited. She's applying back at the Jeffersonian, so…. I think she's really happy to be back. I think she missed it a lot."

They fall back into silence again – but instead of an awkward sort of quiet just begging to be filled, it feels far more natural than it has in years.

There's still a big, looming question in the forefront of Booth's mind. Thankfully, though, he doesn't need to ask it. Sweets finds his own voice and offers the answer of his own accord.

"And the FBI… is reinstating me as a therapist. You'll, uh – you're gonna find an application on your desk this morning, too."

And just like that – there it is.

"I passed the psych exam," the _profiler_ adds, smiling humbly down at the floor, and Booth is speechless for a moment. _Happy_ speechless, to be far more specific, but the way his face lights up at the news – it's rather obvious.

"No kidding!" the older man says, bringing a proud hand to Sweets' shoulder, half expecting the man to jump, tense up at the touch. The response is nothing of the sort, and instead, Sweets just brings his head back up to look at the agent.

"Yup, I, uh…" his face starts to fall as he explains, not into sadness – but into a sober expression as he remembers. He looks away from his best friend and stares distantly towards his son. "I was a good little ex-hostage. Talked to someone, the whole deal. You know…."

Booth allows him the breath it takes to finish.

"We figured we were – figured I was ready to come back. If you'll take me."

" _If I'll take you,"_ the older man says with a smile and a near-mocking tone, as though the answer was obvious. But really – it is. "I'd always take you back. There's nothing that would ever make me hesitate."

A beat.

"It's good to see you, Sweets," he adds, glancing back to the other side of the room where his daughter is trying her best to teach Peter how to bounce a basketball with a debatable level of success.

"You too," the shrink replies, looking down once more. And he pauses; he shifts his weight from side to side, as if about to say more, but unable to find the words. Booth gives him time.

He finds them eventually.

"You know, I, uh… I think I'm ready for a lot of things now."

He doesn't elaborate at first, but once the agent looks over – he sees Lance Sweets fish a black box out of his pocket, small enough to fit in his palm.

Booth never needed one for Brennan, but hell if he doesn't know what it is.

"No…" he starts, his tone bordering on disbelief. And he's struck speechless once the psychologist opens it and reveals the diamond ring sitting inside.

"Figured it's about time," Sweets says, giving his best friend one more meaningful nod before folding the box back up and placing it gently back into his pocket. He says nothing more about it; he just smiles down to the floor until he sees Booth extending his hand once again.

"Congratulations, man," Booth says, gripping his friend's hand tight and grinning ear to ear. Sweets' _thank you_ isn't spoken aloud – but it's there, unmistakable, and after a brief pause, Booth sighs, content. Happy. Thrilled. "You're gonna be fine."

And at that, Sweets goes silent. He brings his eyes up to look over at his son, still playing happily with Christine and two other children who decided to join them. He watches Peter as he bounces the ball to another little boy with relative success, and in the meantime, Lance Sweets just stands there, wondering if what Booth said is really true.

Because here he is – three years removed from being held hostage, tortured as human bait in a government conspiracy that is still alive and raging. Here he is, alive, with a son and soon-to-be fiancée, slowly moving back to the life he once ran from. Standing side by side with his best friend.

God, three years ago, he couldn't stand to be touched. He was far too skinny and far too scared and angry at the whole world, and now – well.

He kisses Daisy every morning, every afternoon and night, and hugs Peter like there's no tomorrow. He eats. He sleeps.

But those four months still happened. He needs no reminder of them, because no matter how well he sleeps at night, he still manages to wake from some hellish nightmare every so often. And no matter how much he loves Daisy, no matter how much he loves Peter from the very bottom of his heart, there come moments every once in a while when he forgets. When he's drained of everything, and all he can imagine in his mind's eye are the dark, colorless walls of that lonely old room they kept him in.

There are moments when he sits at the kitchen table between them, but he's not really there at all. Instead he's back on a familiar cold floor, unable to move while someone carves into his back.

These moments, though, are far less memories than they are _things_ to carry with him, things that weigh on him only in the idle moments of each day, when he forgets to hold them high enough. But when he remembers – he carries them well.

It is for this reason that he thinks that Booth might just be right.

Because he carries the damp smell of four months of darkness. He carries the remodeling in his bones, the healed fractures and breaks. He carries the new scars on his back, a permanent written reminder of loss. Of failure.

There are the masked faces that linger behind his eyes when he loses focus, and there is the distant sound of Naomi Waller's voice echoing in the open space. There are these; and then there are _friends_.

There are the very first faces he saw on waking, and there is the knowledge that they are safe. He carries these, too.

There is love. He carries this every single moment of every day, every time he looks at Daisy or kisses Peter on the cheek or glances around at the life around him and smiles. And all at once, he is absolutely certain that Booth is right; he catches Peter's eyes from across the room, and as the little boy drops the basketball and waves, he is filled with even more of the things he carries. Because there is happiness. There is pride; there is freedom and purpose and family.

And there is joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And this is where we leave them. I hope I've managed to draw things to a close without making it cheesy or unrealistic; some feedback on the last few paragraphs in particular would be great! Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
